Thrill Ride (2 page)

Great,
Vanessa thought.
I
knew
I
should’ve just gone back to bed this morning.

When she’d stubbed her pinkie toe on the way to the restroom, run out of conditioner in the shower, and nearly electrocuted herself when her blow-dryer decided to spontaneously combust, she’d had a feeling it was going to be one hellaciously craptastic day.

She hadn’t had a clue…

“If you’ll look at your dossiers,” Boss began, leafing through his own packet, “you’ll see the last man Rock supposedly killed was one Fred Billingsworth. Now, Fred was a super high-tech and super-secret private investigator. Which means he didn’t spend his time trying to catch cheating spouses or insurance scammers but, instead, was hired out exclusively to major corporations. As far as anyone can tell, his last job was working for some Democratic Party support group. He was supposed to dig up what dirt he could on all the potential candidates for the presidency next election season. As you can imagine, given the tenuous and sensitive nature of his investigations, when he died, the case was quickly taken over from local law enforcement by the FBI. Somehow, and I don’t know how, they got a bead on Rock and that PO box which, along with all these other guys, contained a file on Billingsworth. When General Fuller found out, he had to come clean to the powers that be in the Intelligence community about the true nature of our business here or risk having the investigation fall on all our heads.”

That got everyone’s attention. One of the main reasons the Black Knights had been so effective since they’d opened their doors was the fact that only those few elite men in the highest tier of government knew what they really were.

“What does that mean for our operation?” Ozzie asked.

“According to the general,” Boss replied with a heavy dose of skepticism, “it doesn’t mean a damn thing. He says it’ll be business as usual.”

Those seated around the table made varying noises of disbelief.

“What’s done is done,” Boss muttered, shaking his head. “For now, all we can do is take Fuller at his word.”

“And what do we do about Rock?” Ozzie asked, and Vanessa swung her gaze back to Boss. She’d very much like to know the answer to that question herself.

“We find him,” Boss declared, nostrils flaring, “before anybody else does.”

The
edge
of
Monteverde
Cloud
Forest, Costa Rica

Six
months
later…

There it was again…

That tingling between his shoulder blades. That tightening of his scalp. Call it instinct or intuition or some sort of gut reaction brought on by a lifetime of looking over his shoulder, but Rock Babineaux knew someone was watching him.

Friend or foe?

Merde.
There was really only one option, wasn’t there? Considering he didn’t have any friends left.

Slowly, still sipping his
refresco
—the fruity drink he’d fallen in love with the first time he’d come to Costa Rica—he quartered the area around the little outdoor cantina while unobtrusively thumbing off the safety on one of his 9mms.

Where
are
you? Where are… Ah, there you are.

Over in the corner, a man sat at a small table beneath an arched trellis. The thick vines growing over the top of the structure cast the guy in faint shadow, but Rock didn’t need to see him clearly to know he was only
pretending
to read that book in his hand. In reality, the man was eyeing Rock from behind his mirrored sunglasses. They glinted in the evening sun when he leaned forward to take a bite of ceviche, the citrusy fish dish so popular in these parts.

Jet black hair peeking from beneath a baseball cap and olive-toned skin told the story of the man’s Hispanic heritage just like his slight frame—Rock would bet his favorite pair of alligator boots that the dude weighed no more than a buck and a quarter soaking wet—and a patchy beard told the story of his youth.

Mon
dieu. They’re sendin’ babies after me now?

A hard knot of resignation tightened in his belly, and his dinner—the one he’d been
so
looking forward to since it was the first food he’d eaten in almost a month that hadn’t been picked out of a tree or spooned out of can—turned to bile.

So
much
for
a
nice, relaxin’ evening in town.

Throwing a wad of colorful money on the bar, he hoisted his heavy pack onto his shoulders, turned toward the dense green growth of the jungle pushing up to the side of the cantina, and made sure his pistols were within easy reach.

Not that he’d actually use them, of course.

Just because every agent and operator employed by Uncle Sam was green-lighted to put a bullet in his brain, that didn’t mean he’d return the favor. After all, those folks were just following orders, and he knew all about that, didn’t he? It was following orders that’d gotten him into this mess.

Ducking into the jungle, instantly soaked by the warm water clinging to the leaves on the trees, ferns, and vines as he brushed against them, he started up a winding, nearly indiscernible path in the way his father had taught him. Slow, steady, watching where he stepped and how he moved so that he didn’t disturb the forest animals around him. Cocking an ear to the sounds behind him, he listened to the symphony of buzzing insects, calling birds, and the wet drumbeat of water falling from leaf to leaf, waiting for that one note that didn’t quite belong.

But the seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes turned into an hour and still nothing broke the harmony of the forest’s song.

Was
I
wrong?

The man had been watching him. Of that he was sure. But maybe the guy had just been curious why the tattooed gringo at the bar didn’t look like all the other tourists visiting Monteverde Cloud Forest. Rock’s heavy-duty cargo pants, faded tank top, and well-worn jungle boots certainly weren’t the standard fare of Nike sneakers, jogging shorts, and beer slogan T-shirts. He’d spent the last six months living in the wild…and it showed.

So,
oui,
maybe it was as simple as that.

Raking in a deep breath of relief, he smiled as a scarlet macaw launched itself from a low hanging vine, flying up into the thick canopy. Its brilliant plumage glinted in a rare ray of sunlight that managed to cut through the treetops, its squawking call echoing down to the forest floor below. Adjusting his pack, Rock wiped a hand over his sweaty brow and stepped off the path.

And that’s when it happened.

A hundred yards behind him, a howler monkey screeched out a warning and all sound in the jungle, save the murmur of steadily dripping water, came to a record-scratching halt.

Man
has
entered
the
forest…

And, okay, now was probably not the time to be channeling Bambi.

Rock quickly shrugged out of his pack and leaned it against the wet, ivy-covered base of a massive tree. He covered it with the fronds of a nearby fern before silently moving toward the monkey’s call. Paralleling the trail, he melded into the jungle’s shadows, becoming nothing more than a shadow himself, as the forest slowly came back to life. The insects picked up their droning chorus first, followed by the warbling birds and the grunting chatter of the band of howlers high in the trees.

He hadn’t gone very far when a flash of movement caught his eye. Pressing himself against a tree trunk, breathing in the fresh, earthy smell of the lichen growing near his face, he waited. It didn’t take long since the guy was sprinting up the trail.

In
a
hurry
to
kill
ol’ Rock, are ya? Well, sorry to say, son, but today is not your lucky day.

He held steady until his would-be assassin whizzed by, then stepped from behind his cover. In a flash, he had an arm around the young man’s neck and one of his SIGs pressed into a soft kidney.

Instinctively, the guy began to struggle, flailing around like a June bug on a string, but Rock just applied more pressure. Which elicited a squeak. A very
unmanly
squeak.

Huh?

He didn’t loosen his hold on that skinny neck as he tucked his 9mm into his waistband in order to yank off those ridiculous mirrored sunglasses. The baseball cap went next, and he was astonished to watch a long black ponytail unravel in front of him. Rock spun his captive around and nearly shit his own heart.

“Vanessa? What the
hell
are you doin’ here?”

***

She’d found him!

Finally, after months of searching, she’d found him! And the sound of his smooth voice, that sweet Cajun drawl that brought to mind tin roofs and front porch swings, stroked her eardrums like a silken glove.

“I’ve come to help you,” she breathed excitedly, barely resisting the urge to throw her arms around his neck, to touch his dark hair—it was shorter than she’d ever seen it, like he’d been haphazardly cutting it himself, which she was sure he had.

Keep
it
professional, Van. You have to keep this professional…

Because, yes, it was true she had a little thing for Rock. How could she not? He was just so…so…
natural
, she guessed was the word. None of that bullshit alpha-male mega-ego that so many operators suffered from. Just an unshakable and abiding sense of duty, and a refreshing unpretentiousness that’d attracted her to him from the very beginning. Plus, there was that smooth-as-silk voice…

But he’d made it abundantly clear after she’d sent him all the right signals that he didn’t have room in his life for a girlfriend—much less anything more permanent. Now, if all she wanted was to sweeten the sheets, he was her go-to guy. He’d made that readily apparent at a BBQ one night when he’d smoldered at her and told her trouble—and he’d definitely been trouble with a capital T, even before all of this—could be fun.

But she’d been there. Done that. And though she didn’t have the T-shirt to prove it, what she
did
have was an empty ring finger with no prospects in sight. And let’s be honest here, at thirty, she was beginning to get a bit antsy about the whole thing. Especially since starting a family of her own had always been one of her most cherished dreams.

So, yessir, since she was too old and too jaded to be screwing around—
literally
—with the hot bad boy—
super
hot
—keeping things professional was her only alternative, right? Right.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Especially since his tank top exposed the tan contours of his tattooed biceps and accentuated the breadth of his wide shoulders.

Oh, for heaven’s sakes, pull yourself together, Cordero.

And, yes, the ridiculousness of her being here, in the middle of the jungle, arguing with her own libido about the man standing before her when every government agency in America had guys out hunting for him, wasn’t lost on her. Then again, he’d managed to bring out the ridiculousness in her since day one. For being a communications specialist, she always felt inexplicably tongue-tied around him. Of course, the last time they’d partnered on a mission, he’d done the tongue-tying himself…

And there went her libido again. Memories of his tongue down her throat were not helping the professionalism. Even if at the time it had been strictly business.

“You came here alone?” His expression was flinty, his precisely shaped goatee drooping at the corners of his frowning mouth.

“To the Cloud Forest? Yes.” She’d made the four-hour motorcycle ride from the capital city to here all by her little ol’ lonesome.
Go, go girl power!
“But the others are waiting in San Jose and—”

“Sonofa
bitch.
” He turned and paced a few feet down the trail, cursing in both English and French. Then he swung around and stomped back to her, his hazel eyes glinting even in the deep shadows cast by the forest canopy. “How’d you guys find me?”

It hadn’t been easy; that was for sure. When his Burn and Delete notice came over the wires, he’d disappeared faster than a cry in the wind and had proven to be nearly as elusive ever since.

“We were beginning to think we wouldn’t,” she admitted, letting her eyes run over his face. There were two vertical lines between his dark eyebrows that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. And he’d lost weight. He’d been lean and mean to begin with, but now he was nothing but muscle, bone, and sinew. When you combined all of that with the scruffy hair and faded clothes, a girl couldn’t help but get a little niggle in her belly. Because the man appeared as volatile and feral as the exotic animals inhabiting this jungle. Still…
keep
it
professional
, a little voice whispered in her head, to which she responded,
I’m trying, damnit!
“Boss said you cover your trail better than anyone he’s ever seen.”

Rock grunted, an irritated muscle ticking in his jaw. “I didn’t cover it good enough, obviously. You’re here, aren’t you?”

And, yeah, she’d known he wasn’t going to welcome her with open arms, but this undisguised animosity was a bit of a head-scratcher.

Didn’t he
want
their help?

“Only because we found that wooden bowl in your bedroom back home. The one displayed above your dresser?” His eyes narrowed further, and she took that to be an affirmative. “After extensive research, we discovered the artist only sells his goods here, at the CASEM store in Santa Elena. And since Boss said you’d never had occasion to do any BKI jobs down this way, that meant you’d traveled here for other reasons. It was a shot in the dark, but it was the only one we had.” And luckily it’d paid off, because here he was
. Finally.
“From there it was just a small matter of finding an excuse to come to Costa Rica in order to nose around and—”

“An excuse?”

A large drop of water plopped on her cheek from an overhead leaf, and she held her breath as Rock unconsciously reached forward to brush it off. The pad of his thumb was rough, and,
man,
he smelled good, like fresh foliage, harsh soap, and good, clean, healthy sweat.

Basically, he smelled like he looked. All rough and ready. Wild and exciting. And seeing the look on his face now reminded her of the time he’d interrogated those hit men sent by a crazy Vegas mobster to kill the Black Knights. Then, he’d been tired and worn—performing an interrogation, it appeared, always messed with his head—but the weariness had added a dangerous edge to his expression. It was doing the same thing now. And, boy, oh, boy, did that look go all through her. Because it was the look of man who didn’t shirk his duty, the look of a man whom the world had tested time and again, the look of a man who’d know exactly how to handle anything that came his way. How to handle a gun, a terrorist, a woman—

Ack! Seriously, Van?

“The FBI and CIA know about us now,” she informed him and watched his jaw harden until the hollows in his cheeks deepened, making his face appear harsh and uncompromising. “When the manhunt started, your association with Black Knights Inc. was discovered and General Fuller had to come clean about our little group. Since then we’ve had Company guys breathing down our necks trying to ascertain your location.”

“
C’est des conneries!
”
This
is
bullshit!
he spat in French, turning to pace away once again.

And, yes, a few short months ago she would have agreed with that assessment. But, since then, she’d discovered that having the CIA privy to the true nature of BKI wasn’t all that bad. In fact, The Company and its myriad reams of intel had come in quite handy on a few of their more recent assignments. And just because the two groups didn’t see eye-to-eye on the culpability of one Richard “Rock” Babineaux, that didn’t mean they weren’t still batting for the home team and willing to help one another if and when they could in all
other
endeavors.

“They were convinced we knew where you were, which was sorta funny since we didn’t have the first clue,” she told him, watching the efficiency of his lean-hipped swagger as he once again marched back to her. He moved like a well-built machine. No wasted energy. “They’ve backed off in the last month or so, and from what Ozzie can gather from hacking into their reports, they’ve pretty much given up on the idea that we could help locate you.” Pretty much, except for that one surveillance van back in San Jose. But she figured she’d keep that little bit of info to herself…for now. Especially since she had the feeling it was going to be hard enough to convince him to come back with her. “But we weren’t willing to take any chances. So after we discovered the bowl’s origins, and in order not to tip them off to the lead we thought we might have, we tried to come up with a legitimate reason for coming down here.”